


Let Me Be Your Remedy

by CallMeElle



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Abbie Mills deserves good things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Light Angst, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 15:03:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17266361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallMeElle/pseuds/CallMeElle
Summary: ...and he is nice and warm and if he thinks she might be good, maybe she is?





	Let Me Be Your Remedy

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all, I don't know what this is.  
> I was playing around with this concept and this happened and I hope it's not the worst thing you've ever read.

He sits alone in the dark crowded bar.

For a long moment, she stands at the door of the bar--Jaycie’s, the place is called--searching for somewhere to drink and people watch. Jaycie’s is a beautiful establishment: darkly elegant, the place teeming with black furniture and low lighting and leather and chrome.

The booths in the back are full, half drunk businessmen finally able to loosen their ties. The high top tables are also full, these taken by twenty-somethings reveling in the time away from their painfully generic jobs. She is hard pressed to find anywhere to sit and then she sees the empty stool at the bar, by him.

He sits back casually in one of the stools, leaning against the chair’s hard back, confidently, one large hand loosely holding on to a glass of dark liquid. Whiskey, maybe. Or more specifically, probably scotch. He looks like a scotch type of guy. She has known mostly cheap tequila drinkers in her day, the kind of guys who draw penises on people’s faces when they pass out. She frowns. Obviously, the scotch guy will be several steps up.

She gives herself a quick glance. She’s dressed much differently than her usual attire of ill-fitting brown pants and matching shirt, trading in her police uniform for a black, leather pleated skirt that hems mid-thigh. Tucked into it is a white t-shirt, short-sleeved and made of a sort of cotton blend, the fabric soft and faintly see-through. She has added a string of costume pearls, a few rings, anything to allow her a complete break from daytime her, from Lieutenant Abbie Mills.

She starts across the room, one ankle booted foot in front of the other, the tall heels making her short skirt dance around her thighs. Her eyes are glued to the seat, focused, on a mission to get there. A guy she knows from around grins when he sees her. She finger waves and winks back. Then, she is steps away from the stool, and the man, and he is speaking. She slows at the sound.

“...another scotch, perchance?” he is saying. He speaks lowly, his accented voice deep, gravely, almost like he’d once smoked a pack of cigarettes a day, but all he got for his trouble was something interesting done to his vocal chords. It is _nice,_ she thinks, well a little more than, and it makes her think of late night conversations in the dark.

She finally finds herself and walks the last few steps, easing into the chair. The movement catches his attention and he gives her a glance. And right then, it makes sense, why she had been drawn to him when she first walked in.

The man appears to be just a few years older than her and he wears it well. He’s white--but this is Jaycie’s and _she_ is the anomaly-- though his ivory skin is nicely tanned, as if he spends holidays on tropical islands and has business meetings in hot, sandy places. He's wearing his hair longish, the dark brown tresses curling around his ears, and Abbie lets her eyes sweep over the rest of him: angular face with a firm, strong jawline covered in dark hair, tapered from his neatly trimmed mustache. He puts the fresh glass of scotch to his lips and she, for a second, watches his throat work as he swallows the liquid.

She shakes her head and turns to find the bartender standing in front of her, grinning.

“Abigail Mills,” he says her name, almost reverently, and her painted mouth curves up into a smile.

“Calvin Riggs.” She looks him over. “Good God, it’s been a while.”

He looks the same as she remembers from high school, tall and leanly muscled and good looking, like many of his basketball teammates.

“It has been a while,” he agrees.

“And you must be new to Jaycie’s? I’m here all the time and I’ve never seen you.”

Calvin nods. “Yeah. I recently made a few lifestyle changes, including quitting my corporate job to pursue photography. But until that brings in the cash like I need it to, I’ll be serving up beer for a while.”

She gives him an encouraging smile. “Well, it’s great that you’re actually getting to do something you really enjoy.”

His own smile is bashful as he turns to grab a tumbler and a shot glass from below the bar.

“And you?” he asks. “What are you up to these days?”

“I am actually a police officer,” she tells him. “Lieutenant.”

The eyebrow that Calvin raises gives Abbie a funny feeling. She should not be surprised that everyone she tells about her job _is_ surprised that she’s taken up law enforcement. Her past is quite, colorful, to say the least, so of course no one, not even she, could have predicted it. But Abbie always wonders if the surprise has more to with the assumption that she never would have amounted to anything. Because, seriously, what else had theu been expecting, in Sleepy Hollow, from the little black girl who had once (or a few) times broken into Mr. Robertson’s house, never mind that it was just to get back toys he had taken from Jenny for “getting them in his yard?” What else had they expected from a child who stole, even if it was only for food so that Jenny could eat at night? Abbie knows that memories in this town are long, and despite her service to her city, she will probably always be, to most, troubled little Grace Abigail Mills.

“I never would have thought that’d be your trajectory,” he responds truthfully.

Abbie shrugs. “Life is funny that way.”

“Don’t I know it.” His smile, though, is sincere when he says, “Congratulations, though. That’s amazing.”

“Thank you, Calvin.”

“And you look great, by the way,” he adds. “I mean, you were definitely hot in high school. Fine, smart, badass Abbie. But now--you’re gorgeous.”

She feels her cheeks heat and ducks her head at the compliment. It’s been a while since she’s gotten one.

When Calvin drops a shot glass, tequila by the looks of the salt and the plump slice of lime sitting precariously on the rim, and a tumbler filled with something orange and red in front of her, Abbie looks up, startled.

“I didn’t or…”

“It’s on me,” Calvin insists, throwing her a wink before he moves away to serve another patron.

She downs the shot and sucks hard on the lime, licking at her bottom lip where salt lingers. She takes a quick sip of the drink Calvin made, it’s a tequila sunrise, and leans back in the stool, staring out at the crowd before her.

Nights like this, Fridays when she takes off her uniform and throws on something Lieutenant Mills would never wear, are something like a balm, soothing away overlong days and nights spent sliding into too cool sheets alone. Here, she doesn’t need to maintain the nearly impenetrable wall of stoicism that allows her to walk into the Westchester Police Department every morning, one of three women in the department and the only one with her rank. She doesn’t have to be “Ms. Hard-Ass,” a name actually given to her by a colleague after she’d turned down his advances for the third time. Here she is Abbie, though sometimes Grace, and she can hide behind tumblers filled with liquor and juices that swirl and dilute as ice melts. She puts on skirts she’s not always sure she still knows how to wear and paints her face and, for a few hours or for a night, she breathes.

“He’s right, you know.”

The voice sounds and Abbie nearly chokes on her drink. She lets her eyes sweep his frame. There is the slightly messy hair, dark brown with wisps that curl here and there; a sharp, unshaven jaw and contradictingly soft-looking mouth. And then there are his eyes, cerulean blue, intense in a way she doesn’t quite understand.

“Mary, mother of God,” she whispers. He gives her a curious look, head inclined, eyes focused. This causes her to sit up straighter, those eyes, and the depth that live there. She blinks, shakes her head as if to clear it.

“I’m sorry. What?”

“He’s correct, the bartender.”

Her eyebrows furrow. “Correct about what?”

“Well, I cannot attest to your beauty then.” His voice deepens, lowers a little. “But you are…” She watches his eyes trace the outline of her mouth, moving particularly slow over the plump curve of her bottom lip. “You are certainly a vision now.”

While not especially bothered with the way she looks, Abbie is not unaware of the effect she has on men. Men are not incredibly complicated. They claim to be visual creatures and, in that, she recognizes that she is a facet of what they like to see. But his words are genuine, real in a way that makes Abbie think he sees more than what others see. That he sees past her milky brown skin and doe eyes and full mouth; that she is more than her handful of breasts, the deep curves of her waist, the lush roundness of her ass. It’s like he sees _into_ her.

“I, uh…” she takes another pull of her drink, hoping to calm herself. “Thank you.”

His lips quirk up into a not quite smile and he nods.

“I only declare the truth.”

He says it and from anyone else, from any other voice, it might have been a line. It might have been cheesy. Because really, who says _declare?_ But there is a sincerity behind the tone that endears her to him.  Although, honestly, he could have recited the phone book and she would have found him endearing.

She turns to him, moving so that more of her is facing him. This is what she enjoys, stepping outside of herself.

“I’m Abbie,” she says, holding her hand for him to shake. “Abbie Mills.”

He grips her hand, covering hers completely. His hands are warm, fingertips slightly calloused.

“Ichabod,” he responds. The pad of his thumb rubs along her hand, and her body warms at his touch. “Ichabod Crane.”

She frowns. That name sounds oddly familiar.

“I’ve heard your name before.”

“I’m not so surprised.”

He says it easily, but there is an underlying tension there, around his mouth, in the storm of his eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been in the media a lot lately.”

Then, it all comes to her, seeing his name over various social media sites. Ichabod Crane is a talented actor, mostly known for his popularity in theater. While Abbie is not so into theater, Sleepy Hollow thrives on it, thus, she is always vaguely aware of what happens in that world. His attractiveness has been harped on for years, but those grainy internet photos does not do the man justice.

Recently, though, the handsome and oddly taciturn actor has been in the news, not for any new plays or shows he’s starring in, but for his personal life. She’s not completely sure of the details, but she remembers reading of a philandering wife, a manipulating manager, and something about embezzlement.

The shock must show on her face, at least for a second, because his expression blanks. He doesn’t move away, not physically, but she sees the retreat.

She retracts.

“Wait. No,” she shakes her head. “I didn’t mean… I’m not judging you.”

He inclines his head again, waiting for her to elaborate.

“Sometimes,” she explains, “my face makes expressions without checking with my brain first. It’s a condition. It affects my mouth too.”

His lips quirk. “It’s alright. I’ve heard far worse.” He drinks from his scotch glass. “Besides, it seems that being cuckolded and nearly robbed all the while it played out on television does not garner the type of sympathy one might expect.”

His chuckle is mirthless.

“The pity party makes sense,” she says, nodding at his glass. “Been at it long?”

“A couple of months, I suppose. It wasn’t a terribly horrible time, then, before the news got wind of it”

“So you weren’t drinking scotch by the glass full?”’

“Oh, I certainly was. Now, it is by the bottle and I’m thinking there now be party favors as well.”

A wide smile crosses Abbie’s face.

“That was funny,” she says. “I hadn’t pegged you as the type to be funny.”

Seemingly shocked, he blinks.

“I did it again, didn’t I? The whole words before thought thing?”

“It’s refreshing, honestly.  At least I don’t have to wonder how you truly feel.”

“Very true,” she says. “There is no mystery with me.”

He pauses at that, eyes searching her face. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” he tells her. But before she can come up with an adequate response, he waves a hand.

“Besides, mystery is overrated. My wife was mysterious.”

He doesn’t have to explain that further. Abbie watches as he picks up his glass and drains it. She copies the action.

“Let me buy you another,” she offers. “Someone should do something nice for you.”

He shakes his head. "No, I couldn’t. I heard you tell the bartender that you’re a police officer. For all my wife’s infidelity, she and my manager did not manage to get away with all of my money. I am still very much, as you all say here, loaded.”

“Well, that’s something. You could probably buy a new wife, then, if you wanted. All the porn sites I visit tell me that there is a market for mail order brides.” She takes a sip of her drink. “You’d be a disgusting man if you did that, but the option is there.”

Ichabod blinks.

“The porn sites you visit?”

She shoots him a glance. “That’s all you got out of that?”

“Oh no. The mail order bride piece was stellar. It is just the mental image of you naked in front of a computer screen struck me for a moment.”

She turns to look at him, noting the smirk on his face, and something heated flushes through her. He can sense it, she can tell, and his stormy gaze darkens. This is what Abbie likes about this place, about her nights outside of being the police lieutenant. There is something alluring about meeting men in bars, about saying things one wouldn’t have the gall to say in the light of day.

“You wanted to do something nice for me, you said. Did you mean it?” The question comes out uncertain in his raspy voice.

“I did,” she nods.

“Come upstairs with me.”

“Does this have anything to do with picturing me naked in front of a computer screen?” Her finger seeks his hand and she trails the tip of a nail along his wrist. “Are you trying to get me naked?”

“No,” he says. There is truth in the word. “Make no mistake. If you offered yourself to me, I would not hesitate to do anything that you wanted me to do.”

There is truth in that too.

“But, no, Abigail Mills, I’m not attempting to get you naked.” Something about the way he says her full name makes Abbie blush. “Right now, you are a breath of fresh air and I would very much like to share a bottle of scotch and talk to the beautiful woman I met in the bar.”

Well, who the fuck would say no that?

“Okay.”

Ichabod smiles. “Alright.”

He calls for Calvin and orders a bottle to be sent to his room, then he stands. When she follows him, Calvin looks between them, a sort of half smile on his face. Abbie winks and heads after Ichabod out of the bar.

Jaycie’s is attached to a hotel, an upscale luxury one that Abbie can definitely not afford a room in. She walks across the linoleum, her heels making a steady rhythm with each step. A moment later, they reach a set of elevators and after they’re inside,  Ichabod presses the button for the 15th floor. The door slide closed.

Silence engulfs them. Abbie had noticed it, sitting at the bar, the strength surrounding Ichabod. Now, though, that strength seems _intense_ in the small space. He is a tall man, more than head and shoulders above her. He is thin, lean, but has muscles that are more indicative of some type of physical activity that’s not singing and acting on a stage. He looks _good_ in the tailored gray pants and black dress shirt, the sleeves of which have been rolled up to reveal strong forearms, the veins visibly running beneath his skin.

Her perusal of him is slow, as slow as the elevator moving between floors. When she runs her eyes over the sold expanse of his chest and meets his face again, she notes that he is watching her too. She licks her lips.

“What are you thinking?” he wonders.

“That you are ridiculously good looking,” she answers automatically. “And that either your manager looks like something even too beautiful for Michelangelo to construct or your wife is an idiot.”

His response is to just stare at her, for a long quiet moment, and Abbie can’t seem to look away even if she had wanted to.

The elevator stops. The doors ease open. They step off.

Ichabod’s hotel room is huge. The door opens into a living room, complete with two overstuffed sofas, a matching loveseat, and a glass coffee table. A flat screen television is mounted on the wall. The room is decorated in creams and pale browns and accents of green and gold.

“Fancy digs,” she mumbles, looking around. Her eyes lock on a beautiful glass vase holding a lovely bouquet of flowers that she absently notices might look nice in her apartment.

“Yes, it is nice,” he agrees. He waves an arm. “Have a seat; make yourself comfortable, please.”

There is a knock on the door, room service she assumes, and while he goes off to opens it, she takes him up on his offer to get comfortable. She unzips her boots, kicking them under the coffee table. Her socked feet sink into the carpet as she shrinks several inches in height.

Ichabod returns, a bottle in one hand and two glasses filled with ice in the other. He prepares the drinks for them, and she watches his ministrations, his long fingers moving deftly as he does. Only a moment later, he hands her a drink.

“Let’s make a toast,” he suggests, moving to sit at the other end of the couch.

“To?”

“To chance encounters with gorgeous strangers and excellent scotch.”

They clinked glasses and she takes a swallow, the amber liquor going down smoothly.

“You say things well,” she tells him. “I imagine it’s a skill you pick up being in the limelight?”

He shrugs. “I suppose so. Image is a larger part of my job than I had first anticipated.”

“Image is a large part of many jobs. Although, I guess worrying about how you come across to millions of people is a little different from wondering what a few good ole boys at a small police precinct think about you.”

Ichabod lifts an eyebrow. “‘Good ole boys’?”

“Oh you know. White men who think women, _especially_ one who’s black, have no business having the audacity to want to carry a gun.”

“Ah,” he nods. “So it is important for you, then, that they see you a certain way?”

“More or less.”

“And who is police officer Abigail, if she is not the woman that sits before me?”

Abbie thinks about it. She very clearly understands that who she is for work is something different that what she is or appears to be outside of it. She has never voiced this, though. Her sister Jenny jokes that police Abbie has a stick up her ass, but in that space, where eyes still follow her in judgement, she doesn’t know any other way to be.

“Stoic,” Abbie answers aloud. “No nonsense, firm. Definitely not someone who drinks with strangers and wears a leather skirt.”

“I’m quite sure they would appreciate the leather skirt.”

Abbie shoots him a grin. “And what about you? I don’t really follow Broadway much so I don’t particularly know your public image, but who are you in real life?”

“I’m a pretty normal guy, I assure you. My parents and younger sister still live in Scotland. Both of my parents are professors at one of the universities and my sister is a counselor. Outside of theater, I am often neck deep in some historical anthology. I'm rather boring, to be quite honest.”

Abbie nods, somehow unsurprised at any of this. From there, they relax a little more. Ichabod slips his own shoes off, settling his big socked feet on the coffee table. He loosens his tie but makes no move to take it off. The scotch flows and not just her body, but her mind succumbs. Inhibitions are released and conversations move toward more uncharted territory.

“I should have asked you sooner,” Ichabod mumbles. “You are not, uh, involved with someone are you?”

Abbie shakes her head.

“Good. I do not want someone tearing in upset about his lady. Although that would certainly make for quite an end to this saga, yes? _Cuckolded Theater Star Dies in Brawl with Married Law Officer’s Husband_.”

“You like that word, huh? Cuckold?”

“It is exceptionally fitting in this scenario, is it not?”

Abbie lifts an eyebrow. “If you like it, I love it.” She runs a tongue across her lip.

There is a pause after that and she looks up. Ichabod is watching her, intently, hand clutching his mostly empty glass, ocean blue eyes focused.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he mumbles. His voice is deeper somehow, raspier in a way that makes her alert.

“Do what?”

“Lick your lips. You do it, before you speak, after you drink from your glass. I have been noticing it, since you first walked into the bar, and the gentleman in me has demanded I not mention it.”

“And that part of you lost?”

“Clearly.” He shifts a bit; turns to her. “Your mouth is a, a bloody miracle.”

Abbie blinks. That’s new.

“I’ve never heard that before.”

“You should have. It is the absolute truth.”

This is flirting, but more, arousing in the singleness of the encounter, in the uniqueness of it all. This is not reality, not right now, and the mystery of what might happen next is a sort of fliration itself.

“Let’s move away from this,” Abbie suggests.

“Alright.” It is a simple word, but there is something else there. He’ll concede, for now.

“So, tell me, Abigail: why is there no one here breaking down a door on your behalf?”

“I can’t say for sure,” she mumbles. “It’s been a while since I’ve been in a relationship.”

She tosses the word out, pretty confident that she’s left the bitterness out of her voice. Ichabod watches her for a second before saying,

“The man who does not see your worth is a fool.”

She reaches for the glass tumbler of scotch.

“That sounds nice,” she agrees. “And thank you, for that. But, you don’t know me. You think I’m pretty and I cannot wait to tell my sister that Ichabod Crane thinks I’m hot. Otherwise, though, I could be a terrible person.”

“You very well could be,” he agrees. “However, I’m positive that isn’t true.”

“No offense, but I don’t know if your judgement is very sound. Cheating wife, stealing manager…”

Ichabod blinks.

“Shit, Ichabod, I’m sorry. I…”

“Don’t,” he stops her. “Do not apologize. The candor, just, uh, takes a bit of acclimation.” He breathes in deeply. “And you have a point. You could very well be an axe murderer.”

She half smiles. “I’m not an axe murderer, Ichabod.”

“You are a good person too, aren’t you, Abigail?”

She gives him another smile, but doesn’t give him an answer. They are silent, each lost in their own thoughts. Abbie falls deeper into the sofa, languid, the liquor loosening her muscles. She didn’t need more scotch, not really, but she sipped anyway.

“Ichabod?”

She looks over at him and he gazes back, eyes questioning.

“What do you think constitutes a good person?”

His expression turns thoughtful as he ponders the question. “Several things, I suppose. There are many traits that I attribute to common decency.”

“Like?”

“Honesty,” he replies, “loyalty. Having a proper belief system.”

“You mean religion?”

“Sure, if that is what works for a person, but I do not mean religion particularly. I just believe that people should have a consistent sense of morality, I suppose. An idea of things that they view to be right or wrong.”

Abbie nods.

“But more than that,” he says, “I think good people care about others. They do not lead with self.”

“And you think that’s me? Honest? Loyal? You think I care about others?”

“You are definitely honest,” he tells her, a small smile on his face. “And you are an officer of the law. That seems to me the epitome of caring about others. I don’t think loyalty would be too much of a stretch.”

“Hmmm.” She lifts a shoulder in a shrug. She, for some reason, wants to tell him about those years she spent away from Jenny, the estrangement following a shoplifting incident that had nearly landed Abbie in juvie. They had been separated then, and when Abbie hadn’t made a fuss about it, Jenny had taken that to heart, vowing to never speak to Abbie again.

She doesn’t know why she wants to tell him that, what it would solve. She and Jenny were reunited only years later and she’s since been forgiven. But those were dark years without Jenny and she’s never much talked about it. And it’s here, in this space, that Abbie wants to spill her guts to this stranger and that does weird things to her. It’s too much to contemplate, so she stands up, her glass still in hand.

“Where are you going?” Ichabod asks.

“Just exploring.”

She walks through the hotel room, taking in the small kitchen area, a door nearly the length of the wall. She opens it and steps through, staring wide-eyed at the opulent furnishings. There is a huge bed almost in the middle of the room, the frame and headboard a beautiful, rich mahogany. The mattress sports a pretty green and cream comforter and Abbie only vaguely glances at the side drawers, dresser, and wall length window.

“Damn,” she breathes. She places her glass on the dresser and then climbs onto the bed. She doesn't know much about thread counts or anything of the like, but she does know that the feeling of lying on the bed is unparalleled.

She hears shuffling in the doorway and she knows that Ichabod is there.

“You look good there,” he says.

Her eyes are closed and she doesn’t move to look at him.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

She feels herself smile. He is good at that, at deep convictions in small words.

“How long have you been staying at this hotel?” she asks.

“About a week now.”

“How do you manage to get out of this bed every morning? If I were you,  I would make it my business to stay right here.”

“Scotch,” he tells her. “I move for the scotch.”

She nods. That makes sense.

“Come lie by me,” she suggests.

There is no verbal response but she can practically feel him move, so aware of him in that moment. Soon, the bed dips under his weight and then he is beside her. She inhales the subtle scent of his cologne, something supremely _male,_ earthy and warm.

“You smell nice.”

She can hear the smile in his voice. “Thank you.”

They are silent, the moments ticking by slowly. Ichabod’s breathing evens out and Abbie wonders if he’s fallen asleep.

“Ichabod?” she calls to check.

“Yes, Abigail?”

His voice sounds deeper in the darker room, with only faint light coming in from the front room.

“Want to know the truth?”

“That’s always preferable.”

She takes a deep breath.

“The reason that I question whether I’m a good person is because it’s easier.”

“Easier? Easier than what?”

“Than admitting I’m lonely. I didn’t have the best childhood and I did a lot of things I’m not proud of. Maybe this is the punishment.” Abbie pushes her hand into her hair.  “God.”

Ichabod wordlessly places a cold glass next to her hand and she grabs it, sitting up to sip. He watches her drain it. She can feel his eyes on her and when she turns to him, she catches his gaze. His eyes appear almost silver in the dark and she is enthralled. He moves closer, mere centimeters, but her breathing changes. He places a palm on her cheek, completely binding her to that spot.

“I think you’re beautiful, Abigail.” He rubs a thumb only her cheek. “And I think that you deserve every goodness.”

Instinctively, she licks her lips. He catches the gesture.

“Let me,” he said, “be that goodness for you. At least for tonight.”

Her breathing hitches, again, and she swallows.

“Are you trying to get me naked now?”

Only a corner of his mouth ticks up. “Yes, Abigail, I am.”

She touches his hand, the large palm still on her face. And then she leans in to kiss him. She hasn’t been kissed in longer than she cares to admit and the shock of it causes her to moan against his mouth. He tastes like scotch and mint and his lips on hers are soft, cool.

She moves into him, closer, wanting to sever the distance between them. He licks into her mouth, his tongue almost like velvet. His fingers curve around the back of her head, pulling her in closer, and like it’s attached by a rope, her body follows. She finds herself in his lap, straddling him, and his hands immediately grab onto her waist. He’s so hard against her, so hard beneath her, and she closes her eyes at the sensation.

This kiss is deliberate, a slow melding of lips and tongue. It is exact, his mouth moving against hers thoughtfully. This is good, so good, and she revels in this feeling of being wanted. The kiss is arousing in its simplicity, in its focus. His hands have yet to stray; they are planted firmly on her waist and they don’t move. If anything, they get harder, clasping, clutching at her through the leather of her skirt.

Abbie, though, isn’t quite content with the stillness so she runs her fingers through his hair. The tresses are silk against her fingertips and she pulls. He groans and the sound is so hot that Abbie feels it in her belly. She pushes him back until his back hits the mattress and drops above him, holding out an arm to brace herself. The move breaks the kiss and she startles, away from the haze of his lips. He starts, looking up at her through his long, delicate eyelashes.

“I was right,” he says, his voice a raspy whisper.

“About what?” she asks. Her own voice comes out stilted.

“Your mouth.” He moves a hand to her face, runs his thumb across her bottom lip. “It is a bloody miracle.”

Her arms nearly give out.

“Yours isn’t so bad either,” she tells him.

That causes the corner of his mouth to kick up. “Yeah?”

Abbe nods. It is then that she notices that his hands are on her thighs, his fingers trailing along the hem of her skirt, his fingers like tiny licks of fire on her skin. His hands are a little calloused--and she briefly wonders from what--but they move gently on her body.

“I was wondering,” he says, his hands tickling the ridge of her lace panties. She blinks. When did he..?

“If you’d let me show you something?” he finishes.

“Show me what?”

“And all you’d have to do…” he pauses momentarily distracted. She guesses she has been too, by his voice, by what he might say next, because then he’s pulling her panties over her hips. He taps at her thigh and she reaches down to help him pull them from her body. He watches the material be tossed on the side of the bed. She nudges him, bringing his attention back to her.

“And all I’d have to do is…?”

He smirks.  “Ride my face.”

“I…” All of the air leaves her body.

“Is that okay?" he asks. "I’ve been wanting to spell my name in your cunt since I saw you walk into the bar.”

Abbie blinks. Her body _floods._ “Oh my fuck.”

“Abigail,” he speaks, his eyes ablaze. “Please tell me I can fuck you with my mouth.”

He is _begging_ and she’s drenched.

“Yes.”

He pauses, for just a moment, eyes closed. Then, he moves them up, scooting his body so that his head is closer to the headboard. There is another momentary reprieve and then, before Abbie can fully prepare, he grabs her by the thighs and pulls up until she is hovering above his face. Her hands automatically grip the top of the headboard. She is so open on top of him. He inhales, deeply, and then he lets out a stuttered breath; she can feel it on her sex. His fingers flex on her hips and she squirms, impatient, her body so wet she’s starting to drip down her thighs.

“Ichabod…”

“Abi...just let me…” Abruptly, he stops talking and licks her, the whole of his tongue running through her slit.

“ _Oh_.”

The shock of it causes her to grip the headboard tighter, glancing down at him just as he licks his lips, staring at her sex. He must feel her eyes on him because he looks up.

“You taste so good.”

She can’t verbalize a response but he doesn’t need her to. His mouth is back on her, his tongue pliant as he licks into her, stroking surely against her labia. He kisses her, a literal kiss, with tongue and mouth,  like the ones on her face, sucking and…

“Oh my…”

He hums into her, his tongue vibrating against her walls. She feels her body clenching, her thighs tightening on either side of his head. He begins to eat her in earnest, then, licking up to her clit, his tongue massaging the knob.

“ _Shit_ ,” she grinds out, teeth buried in her bottom lip.

Then she can feel it, his promise to her, the text of her name spelled out in her pussy. There is the long swipe of the I, up and down, slow and sure. Abbie jerks at the curve of the C. The H builds, a climb in the pit of her belly and in her legs too, and he has to hold on to her, arms snaking around her hips to pull her back to him. His hands are so hard on her and Abbie reaches down to touch herself, pulling at her nipples and then caressing them, basking in the hard and soft of it.

He works the A into next, even slower, easing up to the point and down again like he has all the time in the world. Abbie half huffs, half moans, grinding into his face. She can feel him laugh beneath her, into her, and she grinds harder. The B features the same easy glide of his tongue but it’s somehow _more,_ somehow even _fucking hotter,_ and she cries out. He moves right into the O and then the D and back into the I without even giving her a chance to breathe.

Her senses are overloaded-C-her eyes blinking through her haze of lust. The sound of him licking her, sucking her, eating her, is, quite frankly, obscene. And the feel of him, the single minded focus, the-H-the absolute-A-B-

“Fuck, Ichabod.”

-O-D. And again: I-C-H…

“Oh my _god.”_

-A-B

She is riding him now, hips bucking. She squeezes his head between her thighs and he probably can’t even breathe, but she can’t believe how wet she is, her arousal almost coating the tops of her thighs.

-O-D. He moves his lips to cover her slit and he _sucks._

And then Abbie is coming, bucking against his face so hard he digs his nails into her hips to still her. But even that adds to her orgasm and she rides out the wave, screaming out in pure, unadulterated ecstacy.

When, finally, her body settles, Abbie falls, loose limbed, onto the mattress beside him. He turns to face her, making no immediate move to wipe her juices off of his face. Instead, he licks his lips, like earlier, like he’s savoring her.

She breaks the silence. “I haven’t come that hard in…” she pauses, thinking. “I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard.”

“The pleasure was mine,” he speaks.

“Oh no, believe me, the pleasure was all mine.”

He chuckles, low and easy.

Abbie notices that she is still fully clothed. Still sits up and climbs off the bed, letting her socked feet sink into the carpet. Ichabod moves when she does, resting on his elbows as he watches her.

“What are you doing?”

She stares at him, at the sliver of light from the living room casting a shadow over him, his eyes like lead as they stare back, watching, waiting.

She reaches down, pulls her socks from her feet, her red painted toes now bare. She moves to her shirt, grabs the hem and drags it over her head, tossing it beside the socks on the floor. Her bra is next, the front clasp making it easy to unsnap the black satin and drop it to the floor. Her breasts spill out, warm and full, her nipples pebbling as soon as the air hits them. She hears Ichabod swallow, and she reaches behind her to unzip the skirt and let it drop to the floor.

And then she is bare to him, all of her: the firm weight of her breasts, the deep curve of her waist, the roundness of her hips. Ichabod sits up fully to let his eyes run the length of her, several times, taking note, lingering, cataloging all of her to memory.

Finally, he speaks.

“How are you this bloody sexy?”

“Hmmm.” She hums, seemingly casually, but she shivers at the praise.

“I’d like to see how sexy you are.”

He lifts a brow and begins the process of removing his clothes, his actions painstakingly slow. Ichabod doesn’t break eye contact.

Something skips in her chest, then, something long buried deep, deep in the recesses of her heart. This feels, this feels different; this feels _intimate._ Her stomach clenches and she cannot tell if it because of how he is presently standing before her: naked and strong, his sex surprisingly long and thick; or if it is because of the feeling sitting heavy in her chest.

Her gut tells her not to question it, not to think too much about it.

“What do you want, Abigail?”’

She tilts her head, questioning.

“Well.” He moved towards her, one step, two. “I’ve already gotten what I wanted: to tongue my name inside you.”

Abbie licks her lips at the memory and he moves forward again, closer still, closing the distance, until she can breathe in the scent of him, warm and clean, and a little sweaty. His sex pushes against her belly.

“So tell me, what do you want?”

She stops for a moment, thinks a little.

“I want my name on your tongue too.”

“Oh?”

She nods, emboldened by the way he’s still staring at her.

“I want you to whisper it when you slide into me.”

He makes a noise in his throat, almost like a whimper.

“I want my name on your lips when I ride you, as you hold on to my hips and push into me.”

She walks him back to the bed, a small hand on his chest to push him back. He falls back onto the mattress and Abbie follows after him, bracketing her thighs on either side of his hips. It should be impossible, but she’s already so wet for him again.

“Condoms?” she asks.

“Drawer. Right.”

Abbie leans over to open the bedside drawer, grabbing  a string of gold foil wrapped condoms. She rips one off and bites the wrapper open with her teeth. She reaches down to palm him; he’s so hard in her hand, the skin of him hot. She rolls the condom on.

“Anything else you want?” he asks as she hovers above him, body taut with anticipation.

“Yeah,” she smiles, leaning forward so that she’s braced with her hands on either side of his head, lips at his ear. This is what she’s been wanting, craving, this rush of affection that has been so removed from her life. That and this confidence that she finds is missing far too often. “When I make you come, I want you to groan my name, so lost that all you know is me.”

He blinks up at her, stunned, and she takes that moment to slide down the length of him.

“Fuck,” he hisses, large palms covering her ass.

She pauses in her descent. “No, no,” she chastises. “What do you say?”

“Abi-”

She continues down until she is completely full of him.

“Fuck, _Abigail_.”

“Good boy.”

Ichabod stills for a minute, breathes out. “I’d no clue I could be aroused by praise until this very moment.”

She grins down at him.

She starts to move, a rhythmic twisting of her hips: up, down, circle, again, the pace slow and unhurried. He is so warm, so full in her as she stretches her, her walls grasping him, holding him in her heat. She leans forward, bracing herself on his chest. Ichabod is a built man, with strong arms, a flat, muscled abdomen, visible veins in his arms that lead to long, tapered fingers. Those fingers, slightly calloused at the tips, are digging into her, almost like he wants to mark her, to make her remember him. She won’t likely forget.

They are so synchronized it’s almost scary: her steady bounce up and down on his dick, his deep push into her as he mirrored her movements. Her mouth seeks his ear and she licks around the lobe, pulling it in to suck.

“You feel amazing,” she tells him, her voice a whisper. “God, you feel so good in me.”

He grunts, groans out a near silent _“fuck.”_ and lets one hand fall away from her waist. Those fingers find where they are joined, where her slick covers them both, and he presses a thumb to her clit. She jerks, a surprised moan leaving her body. She catches his eyes, the expression on his face. He is so aroused, so into this, so absolutely enamored by the way her body moves on top of his.

It is only uphill from there, the build moving them faster, faster, the wet sounds of the slide of them almost filthy in its intensity. He presses against her clit as his hips pound into her, her body clenching around his hardness. He leans up to nibble at her breasts, sucking on her nipples. She winds her hips in a way that makes him hit a spot, one deep inside her. And she rides him that way, keeps him there, hard and insistent and, “oh, _fuck me.”_

When she comes, her knees are locked against his torso, her fingers digging into his chest. Her orgasm triggers his and he comes as he fucks into her, her name spilling like honey from his lips.

She stays there a while, on top of him, her breathing hard and labored. He’s still inside her and she can still feel him pulsing against her walls. It is only long moments later, when the sweat on her skin cools and he’s gone placid, that she disentangles herself, falling over beside him, boneless.

“So,” she mumbles. “Your CEO must not only look like Idris Elba’s twin brother, but he must also be winning Olympic medals for his sex game.”

Ichabod chuckles beside her. “Well, it seems that there’s more to a marriage than good looks and good sex.”

“Yes,” Abbie agrees. “But if that was the sex I was getting on a regular basis, I’d try a little harder.”

They fall into another lapse of silence. Her body is absolutely buzzing, the odd state that comes with an orgasm: limbs languid, downright tired, but an insistent energy in the veins,

“Thank you,” she speaks, seemingly out of nowhere. “That was a goodness I didn’t realize I needed.”

Before he can respond, she gets up to go to the bathroom, padding naked across the cold room. She closes the door behind her with a soft click.

She makes vague observations about the restroom: glass enclosed shower, white ceramic tile, a mirror that barely shows her to her waste. She uses the toilet quickly and then washes her hands before staring at herself in the mirror.

Her chestnut brown skin looks overly bright, her eyes wide in the glass. Her kinky hair is a bit wild and she reaches up to pick at the curls with her fingers. She could see the rest of her below her breasts, and the proof of his teeth and tongue are in the tiny marks marring her skin. He’s left evidence of this tryst.

She can still feel him when she moves, every time she shifts on her feet and that makes her pause. This feeling, this sudden melancholy, is… unexpected. She hasn’t done this in a while, the rolling in twisted sheets with men she doesn’t know. And the heavy feeling of loneliness that settles in the pit of her stomach makes her feel ill. She doesn’t know what she had expected. She knows that this man is a wealth of issues and complications she has absolutely no time for. But when he had listened to her and told her she was good; when he had stared at her like she was a goddess on this earth; when he had slid into her like he was coming home, Abbie had felt herself _feel,_ something she hasn’t done in quite some time. And she knows that for him, she is just some lay from the bar and that digs at Abbie more than she cares to admit.

Resigned, she walks back out to the bedroom. The picture is different than the way she left it, and she, she feels different too. Ichabod has moved to a sitting position, still naked-at least his chest is bare- and he is under the thick comforter. His phone is in his hand, his long, skillful fingers wrapping around the device. He looks up at her when he hears the sound of the door opening. He gives her a smile.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

She nods. “Yes, of course. I just had to pee.”

Even she can hear that her voice sounds a little _off._ He doesn’t respond verbally so she goes to search for her clothes. She looks around on the carpet and then, remembers that he’d literally ripped her panties off. She frowns as she picks up the tattered lace.

“I’m sorry,” Ichabod says from his position on the bed. “I was…” he searches for the correct word. “Excited.”

“Hmmm.” she hums. “These were expensive.”

“I’ll pay for them,” he insists.

Her frown deepens. “I’m not going to take money from you after we’ve just had sex. Imagine that headline.”

The joke falls flat, though, and he doesn’t smile like she expects him too. Instead, he tilts his head a little and looks at her like he’s assessing her. She needs something to do, and to be covered, so she picks his shirt up from the floor and throws it on.

“Abigail,” he says her name after what seems like way too long.

“Yeah? “

“Do you, uh, regret this?”

She looks up when he asks, something vulnerable in his eyes.

“No, of course not. I just, uh…” She runs her hand through her hair and looks around. “I should probably go, though, right? I should...”

She goes to grab for her clothes, but then he’s standing in front of her, in just his boxers, tall and concerned. He holds her chin between his thumb and forefinger and makes her hold his gaze.

“Abigail.”

She blinks up at him, his blue eyes roaming over her face.

“Do you want to leave?”

 _No,_ she thinks, automatically, and that alone scares the shit out of her. But she can’t move, can’t think, not really, not when he’s so close to her. Not when he smells like aftershave and _them._ Not when he keeps looking at her like he _knows_ her.

She prides herself on honesty, on saying what she feels. But, she never can when it's about her, when it's about emotions that she has no business feeling and thoughts she can't quite make sense of.

When she doesn’t answer, he places a soft kiss to her lips.

“Stay, Abigail.”

“I…”

“Stay,” he says, so softly it’s almost a whisper.

“No. That’s not how these things work, Ichabod. This happens and then I go home and I remember you fondly as great sex I had in a hotel. But this isn't real and what's the point in acting like it is?”

His eyes are steady on her.

“Is that what you want? If that’s what you want, I will respect that. But, Abigail, I…” He moves closer to her, circles his free arm around her waist. She follows way too willingly. “You don't know that this is not real. And I want to talk to you more, get to know you.” His voice dips. “I want to be inside of you again.”

Abbie feels herself falling. This is strange, she thinks, this fluttering in her stomach. She tells herself she should run, because what the _hell?_ She doesn’t know this man. And further, this is one night. This is life as Abbie, apart from Lieutenant Mills. She knows that this makes no sense, that on Monday when she slips back into her uniform, this night will be but a memory, a mere facade that does not fit into her real life.

But if that’s true, why does she want to stay? And if she stays, it doesn’t mean anything more than another night of fantastic sex. Right?

“Stay with me tonight.”

She shifts on her feet, biting at her bottom lip. “And in the morning?”

“We share breakfast. You tell me your address and I pick you up later for dinner.”

“I don’t know, Ichabod.”

“Stay, Abigail,” he pleads. “Let me be a goodness for you, just a little while longer.”

When he kisses her this time, Abbie thinks that she might cry. He’s far too tender, the way he savors her mouth. His mouth moves slowly, tasting her, licking at her lips before delving inside. Her eyes close and she lets herself be taken, lets herself fall into the security of his arms. She can always just leave in the morning.

And when he slides his shirt down her arms and lays her on the bed, when he slides thick and hard into her again, she lets him do that too, because there is something warm about him whispering in her ear, “ _you are beautiful; you feel like heaven; you’re a fucking goddess.”_ She thinks that, at least for a little while, she deserves some warmth. She can always leave in the morning.

And when the sun streams through the blinds way too late in the morning, her eyes fluttering open to see Ichabod offering her a plate of french toast and a side of strawberries, she allows herself to stay because his eyes are like gems in his beautiful face, and he wants to get to know her, and really, who says that this Abbie is just a guise?

“So you’ll let me take you to dinner?” he asks, as she’s preparing to leave, standing in the door of his room. In the light of the day, he’s even more persistent and it makes no sense that Abbie _still_ feels a fluttering in her stomach, a vice gripping her lungs.

“You don’t take no for an answer, do you?”

“Not when it’s something I want,” he tells her. “And I want you.”

“You don’t know me, Ichabod.”

“And dinner will start to change that, yeah?” He stands up straighter and places a hand lightly on her waist. “I don’t know what it means that I feel like this.  But I want to keep seeing this passionate Abigail, and I also want to meet Lieutenant Mills (but he says it like Leftenant and Abbie wants to jump on him again) and I…” He gently squeezes her waist. “And just let me take you to dinner. Please.”  

And Abbie says yes. She is a solid judge of character and he is nice and _warm_ and if he thinks she might be good, maybe she is?  Maybe it’s okay, for just a little while, to let the mask stay on. Because if he _is_ really that good at sex and if he actually means that he wants to know the rest of her, then maybe it’s okay to try. And if it all goes horridly, she can leave. Right?

  


**Author's Note:**

> If you made it this far, thank you for reading. Me, a laptop, and day drinking were all involved in the making of this fic. Lol. (Excuse all typos, please.)  
> For those of you who read TMHTLY, I should have an update to that sooner than later. I'm knee-deep in the next chapter.  
> I hope all of y'all have had a great holiday season and Happy New Year!  
> <3, Elle


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